


white lace curtains

by touchmytardis



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Implied shower sex, M/M, Soft boys being soft, implied blow jobs, implied sexytimes, implied top Segundus, modern cottagecore AU, utterly shameless fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchmytardis/pseuds/touchmytardis
Summary: John Segundus waking up in a bed that isn't his own.
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus
Comments: 17
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to write something sweet and simple because I tend to write rather dark things.  
> I think this is set in the early 00's? It's really not important but I just didn't want to think about HISTORICAL ACCURACY. also they need to take a shower together?

A pale sun shining through white lace curtains wake you up. The room is unfamiliar, yet you feel safe, as though you might have woken up here a hundred times, as though you might have hung those horrible curtains yourself. The curtains flutter in the light breeze, infusing the room with a scent of roses and flowers you don’t know the name of yet, but which you cannot wait to learn. You lay still and feel the sun warm your skin as you close your eyes and imagine what it would be like to wake up here every day. The smell of coffee filling the small house because you always wake up first and you know where everything is and that it is perfectly fine that you make coffee before he has left the bed, and maybe you bring the coffee to him, or maybe the smell wakes him up and he wraps his arms around you as you stand by the kitchen sink and rinse the blackberries that are surely growing in the garden. Maybe your toothbrush is next to his, maybe he has given you a drawer and asked you what kind of curtains you would prefer.

You open your eyes again, because perhaps you don’t need to imagine what it would be like, because you are here now and his arm is draped across your chest. You move very slowly, because if he wakes up the spell might be broken and the sun will feel harsh and the breeze too cool and the arm might feel too heavy. So you slowly turn your head to look at him. He is asleep, his head is right below the pillow, on the mattress and he is facing you. The warmth of the sun feels insignificant compared to the warmth spreading in your chest, your stomach, your entire body. You notice that his eyelashes are very long and that there are small lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. It reminds you a lot of a dream, or of several dreams, because you have dreamt about John Childermass several times. But you know this is real, because no matter how strange and detailed your dreams might be, you would never dream up those awful lace curtains.

He is a quiet sleeper, and you are fairly certain that he had lain just like this when you had fallen asleep. So close, so content. He has almost made you believe that he might want this as much as you do. That he had only been waiting for the right moment. That he wants to show you the flowers he has planted and tell you their names and their uses. You wonder if he will ever tell you how he got the scar on his cheek, or how he ended up here, in a cottage that looks as though no one has lived here since the 70’s, in a part of Yorkshire most people have forgotten that even exists. Were the two connected?

Perfectly aimed rays of light hit his neck and his hair and you feel so utterly blessed to be here, to be near him and to see the sharp edges of his jaw and the soft locks of his hair in the sunrise, in his bed. You want to touch him, but you settle on the memories of the night before. Your tongue tasting every inch of his skin, light bites on his neck and thighs. Your hands in his hair as you pulled him down towards you and how he had gasped when you stopped yourself from pulling too hard. His bottom lip looks a bit swollen, and your own lips curve because you know it is swollen because you couldn’t keep yourself from biting and sucking at it when he fucked you. You desperately want to reach out and run your fingers along his cheek, across his lips and down his neck. You don’t.

You imagine waking up here, for the twentieth time. You would know each other well, and you would know how he likes his coffee. You would have a shower and then bring the pot outside, and you would listen to the buzz of bees and chirp of birds as you buttered your toast and waited for him. He would always wake up later, and he would always emerge from the patio doors, wrapped in the sheet you slept under and a cigarette in his mouth. He would look like everything you have ever wanted, and he would be used to the fact that you had made breakfast, but he would still smile, kiss your cheek and make you feel as though you were the only person he could ever want.

Even though he looks rough, as though he would be covered in scars and memories, his skin is smooth and soft and warm and just like him. You have only seen two scars on his body, and you are fairly certain that there isn’t a part of him you haven’t seen, or touched, by now. You had already seen and asked about the one on his cheek, but the other one had caught you by surprise. It was bigger, and looked newer, and much deeper and closer to vital organs. To his heart. It felt like some horrible metaphor for his entire life and it had shocked you, because you had somehow imagined that he had lived a life devoid of emotion and if you could just read his scars like a book maybe you would understand. You hadn’t asked about that scar, only placed a soft kiss on it before kneeling down in front of him. You find yourself wondering if he’s dreaming, and if he’s dreaming about the person who scarred him.

Would he have shown you all this if he really did not want you there? Would he still have his arm around you? Maybe. But you push the feelings of doubt away and focus on the weight of his arm, the sun and the wind on your skin, his light breaths against your shoulder and the smell of flowers. It feels as though you have done this a hundred times before, as though you are supposed to be right here. With him, with the bright May sun shining on you and the ugly lace curtains swaying from the warm breeze. It feels like home. The arm across your chest flexes, and you hear him uttering a soft noise. Like a whine, as though he’s trying to tell the world that he doesn’t want to wake up.

You watch as John Childermass stirs. He seems reluctant to open his eyes, his arm moves and then his legs. He does the thing with his lips that has always made you absolutely weak, a slow flick of the tip of his tongue across his upper lip and then sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. You had assumed it was something he only did in front of other people, because he knew how incredibly sexy it was. Maybe it was just a reflex. You’re holding your breath as he opens his eyes. Soft and dark and you realize you would be absolutely okay with him kicking you out, you would submit to all his wishes if it meant that you would get to be this close to him again. He pulls his arm back and you think your heart might break at any second. He puts his hand on your left cheek and you feel whole again.

“Hey… “ You feel privileged to be the person who gets to hear his first word in the morning. His voice is a bit hoarser than usual, maybe because it’s morning, maybe because he was screaming eight hours ago. He smiles, and then continues “you’re still here.”

You return his smile. His words hurt, but you know him. You know John Childermass and you know that even if it didn’t mean as much to him as it meant to you, he will never be cruel. He doesn’t sugar-coat anything, but he will stay quiet if he knows his words may break someone and you know he would never want to break you. His fingers moves across your face, down your cheek and over your lips, a light dance across your forehead and along the line of your jaw. This is not what rejection feels like.

“Did you want me to leave?” you finally ask, and it feels like letting the air out of your lungs after holding your breath slightly longer than what is comfortable. You know that he knows that your question might refer to a hundred different things and that any of those things might be the one that ruins everything. He makes you brave and he makes you weak and he makes you feel at home. You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss it softly when he answers.

“Never.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, I hate myself and my writing less so I thought I would repost the story previously known as "quiet questions and answers unspoken" because I actually quite like it.

A crash of thunder wakes you up, it’s still dark outside but you’re not sure if it’s night or morning, if the sun has not risen yet or if it’s the thick cover of clouds darkening the sky. You must have forgotten to close the window before you fell asleep, the smell of rain is intoxicating and the pillow feels a bit humid. Yet you’re not cold, you are perfectly comfortable, sharing a blanket with John Segundus, your arm stretched out towards him and touching his hand with yours. It feels a bit strange, and a little bit cheesy, to be the kind of man who wants to hold your lover’s hand in your sleep. But it’s not just any lover’s hand. It is John Segundus’ hand and it is the only hand you want to hold. You want to stay right here, to listen to the thunder while feeling the warmth of him next to you, to fall back asleep to the sound of his breaths.

Another low rumble in the sky reminds you that you have to get up, so you slowly pull your arm back and sit up, shivering when your feet touch the cool floor. As your eyes adjust to the dark, you can make out the shape of the jeans he threw on the floor last night. You put them on, leave the bed and close the window. You hold your breath for a moment, just to make sure he’s still sound asleep. When you hear his even breaths, you carefully leave the bedroom and close the door behind you. Worried that the light might bother him, you tread carefully across the dark room and wait until you have closed the bathroom door before you turn on the light. You’re not used to having someone in the house and you’re not used to being quiet here. You look at the mirror when you rinse your hands and the strange smile in the corner of your mouth doesn’t seem to want to go away, because as soon as you try to stop smiling, you remember why you were smiling in the first place. And so you smile again.

You put on your coat and go outside, closing the front door as quietly as you can. You sit down on the wooden deck and light a cigarette. Stray drops of rain bounce against the wood and touch your ankle. The thunder still sounds far away, but still close enough to give you that familiar tingling sensation down your spine. You need to be out here with the dark and the rain and the thunder. Nature has always been your temple and its nights like these when you feel the most alive. You realize that for the first time in your life, there is something else you care about just as much. Possibly more. It is quite likely that John Segundus is more important to you than the magic of a storm. Everything feels different and you know that the feeling coursing through your body isn’t just the lightning. It is something just as powerful and old and sacred and you have found a new shrine in John Segundus’ body.

Time seems to have abandoned the world you and him are inhabiting. You know for a fact that less than two days have passed since you got here, yet it feels as though you have been with him for months. Decades. The easy way you had fallen into a rhythm of silence and conversations, of wine and coffee. Of quiet questions and answers not spoken, but acted out in kisses and touches. The way you had known to drag a finger lightly across the nape of his neck to elicit the most wonderful reaction, a soft whimper and a shudder, followed by his hands on your jeans. Time has given you all these moments with him and yet you can’t really remember what you did yesterday. You know he cooked for you, but you don’t know what you ate. Did you take a shower? Yes, you clearly remember running soapy hands up the back of John Segundus’ thighs. Had you gone outside? He had asked about the flowers in the garden, and you had showed him, his hand in yours as you pointed out what you had planted and what had already been there when you moved in. At some point night had had descended and you had offered him your body.

You are discovering new things that are more important than time. Soft hair that smells of cinnamon, brushing against your cheek as you shift closer to each other, trying to find the way your bodies will fit together perfectly. His arm across your chest and his head in the crook of your neck. The way he says your name. Soft and quiet in the morning or loud and deep at night. You want to tell him how it makes you feel, how it makes the hairs on your arms stand and how it sends sparks down your spine. You always liked his smile, but since that first kiss, he has shown you different smiles. One that is full of tenderness, he has worn it in the morning and after you lightly touched his arm when he was cooking, and your favourite, when he thought you couldn’t see him watching you. The other one is the one he flashes when he is on top, or when he’s the one taking the initiative. You are sure he’s going to give you that smile some day when you’re in public and you’re going to blush and get an erection. His eyes turn dark and mischievous, it’s a sideways smile with just a hint of teeth and it is full of promises of pleasure.

There should be a red light blinking somewhere in the back of your head, but if it is there, you can’t see it, nothing feels wrong about this. It might be the psychosis of falling in love, or it might be the sex, because even though you feel like a teenager experiencing the greatest fling of their life, you are old enough to know that these things make a difference. Hormones. Rose-tinted glasses. Near-constant erections. Losing track of (and interest in) time. It’s been five years since you first met, but you’ve only known each other for mere hours. Does time make that much of a difference? In your experience, it’s the intimacy that matters, both physical and emotional – and you can’t remember ever being this close to someone. Your limbs are wrapped around him and your chin is resting on his shoulder and everything is him, him, him. His skin always feels slightly cooler than your own, his face always more closely shaven and his clothes always cleaner. Does time make a difference? Can you really say “always” when you have only felt his skin for less two days?

If you were a braver man, you might tell him these things. You might tell him that you want him to be your “always”. That you want the things you have experienced for the past two days to be the only thing you know, that you want your always to be like this. To be him.

You might tell him that you only want him to say your name from now on because it turned into a hallowed word when he first gasped it into your ear two nights ago and you want him to turn your nights together into hymns, sung together by the movements of your bodies. Hearing it from anyone else’s lips would be sacrilege.

You might tell him that you want to find all the ways your bodies might fit together. You want to tell him that time does not matter because right now you are together and your bodies are as close as they can possibly be and it is a new kind of worship that you only want to explore with him.

You think you might become a braver man with John Segundus.


End file.
